


Not Three Musketeers

by Multiple_Universes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Historical, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 08:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20306509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multiple_Universes/pseuds/Multiple_Universes
Summary: As an angel, it is Aziraphale’s duty to spread peace and love. When he hears rumours about a possible war between England and France he decides that he must find a way to stop it. It is just a shame that he fails to properly take stock of the situation before he steps in.





	Not Three Musketeers

**Author's Note:**

> I don't remember how I thought that throwing Aziraphale and Crowley into the events in The Three Musketeers was a good idea, but when I got the idea I couldn't let it go. I will do my best to keep things historically accurate and I apologize for any mistakes I made.

_London, 1866_

The demon Crowley walked aimlessly through the streets of London. He was _not_ thinking about any angels, he was _not_. He was a demon with a lot to do and many people he could talk to.

_Fraternizing. _The word sprang up in his mind once more, taunting him. Several years had passed since Aziraphale had said the word to him and still he would find his thoughts returning to them from time to time.

He gritted his teeth and kept walking, pretending to take an interest in his surroundings, but when his eye was caught by the sign up ahead he wished he had kept his eyes on his feet.

The sign advertised to the world that if they so desired, a person could purchase books here and at reasonable prices.

Crowley’s mind took him instantly to another bookshop in a different part of the city and he hurried on, wishing to be as far away as possible from it. But just as his feet took him past the doorstep, something inside him rebelled.

He refused to run from a bookshop just because of one particular bookshop owner. Not only was it ridiculous, it was also… He tried to think of the right word and failed. It was something. Humiliating. No, wrong word.

He stopped, turned and walked back to the doorway. He did not read books, well not as much as – He caught himself just in time. He hardly ever read books, but that did not mean that he was not allowed to enter bookshops.

Bracing himself, he stepped inside. He did not realize he was doing it until he was through the doorway and then he asked himself what he was bracing himself for. It was a bookshop not a shooting range!

He turned his head, taking in the room around him. His eyes saw what was currently before him as his mind saw a different bookshop altogether. But this bookshop was nothing like the one a _certain_ _person_ kept. Firstly, it was full of books, which were published recently and not the old scrolls and various editions of the Bible that the other bookshop favoured. Secondly, as soon as Crowley entered an elderly gentleman – most likely the owner of the shop – stepped forward, joining his hands, wishing his visitor a good day and asking if he could be of any help.

Crowley gave a nod and feigned interest in the items displayed on the closest bookshelf.

He became conscious of avoiding a certain thought, no – a certain name. He took a slow breath. He was avoiding the name of the angel Aziraphale_._ There, he thought it.

His eyes passed unseeingly over the books. He needed to turn and leave now. He had made his point. He was…

And then his eyes stopped at two words engraved in gold on the spine of a book and a hurricane of memories hit him. He reached out and pulled the book off the shelf. The covers were the colour of marble while the spine mimicked oak.

“Ah! An excellent choice, sir!” the owner of the bookshop exclaimed. “I expect you’ll be wanting the second volume as well,” he added and indicated the volume in question on the shelf with the same two words on its spine.

He could put it back. He could say that he was merely looking. It would have nothing of interest to him, anyway. He could walk away and stifle the memories threatening to suffocate him.

He took the second volume down, paid the man and walked out of the store with the books clutched close to his chest. There was no explanation for what he had done and he did not bother coming up with one. That was a lie that would not fool him.

This time he took the shortest route back to his apartment. He needed to be alone. The air felt stifling. It was a good thing he could navigate the streets with his eyes closed, because he hardly saw anything of his trip. His ears were full of the voices of the long dead. Long-forgotten music played in his mind and figures danced before his eyes, as though mocking him.

He shot up two flights of stairs and entered his apartment where, at last, he set the books down on a table.

It took a lot of courage to open the first volume and his hands shook as he turned its pages. He forgot to breathe, forgot what century he was in. Old memories rose, taking the place of more recent ones as he was transported two hundred years back in time. The hour was late when he closed the first volume and moved on to the second one. At last, when he was finished with both, he set them aside and contemplated the books in silence.

He did not expect the author to mention him or Aziraphale and, so, the complete omission of their names did not surprise him. What did surprise him, however, was that, despite how fictionalized the whole account was, he found tears rising to his eyes several times. The names and the illustrations stirred old feelings he had not revisited in a long time.

He crossed the room, feeling a little unsteady on his feet, and retrieved one of the last bottles of two hundred year old Anjou wine and poured himself a glass.

The books lay on the table with a faintly accusatory air. He turned his back on them and raised the glass to his lips. For a moment, he imagined he could hear the firing of cannons and smell gunpowder in the air. He thought he could hear the cries of men dying all around him. He remembered standing closer than ever to the angel and how Aziraphale turned and looked at him.

There had not been _three_ musketeers. There had once been a whole lot more than just three. Perhaps, among them were three very close friends who fought for honour, justice and to keep each other alive. Perhaps someone did once shout “all for one and one for all” and meant it, but Crowley doubted it. He certainly never heard anyone use words like those. They were not the sort of words someone shouted in a battle, more the kind of words that a writer came up with afterwards. No, there had not been _three_ musketeers, or three musketeers and a fourth man about to become a musketeer. There had not even been _two_ musketeers, because the angel and he were_ not_ musketeers. No, there had just been an angel, a demon and a lot of stupid humans. Quite a monstrous amount of stupid humans, actually.

Outside, a new day began. The light of dawn crept into the room slowly, as if afraid of startling the demon, and settled over the book.

The gold letters on the spine caught the light and gleamed. _Three Musketeers._

_Paris, 1622_

Aziraphale spent the start of the 17th century in the heart of Paris. He rented a small house in a narrow street that branched off one of the bigger ones that led to a market square. The houses here were built so closely to each other that the residents of one house had no trouble at all to hear what was said in the house next door. The rooms were small and the windows did a poor job of letting in the light and an even poorer job of keeping out the cold, but he bore it all with great courage.

He dressed well and ate even better. He had long ago discovered that living near a market suited him best, not because he was two steps away from fresh ingredients for his meals, but because the cooks in the taverns nearby were two steps away from fresh ingredients for his meals.

Aziraphale was on close terms with Jacques – an excellent cook who would, alas, never make it into the history books. Jacques took M. d’Azirafelle (as he was known while in France) for an English Count living in Paris incognito. The cook hated the English, but M. d’Azirafelle was so kind to him and always took such care to pay for all his meals that Jacques found it in his heart to forgive him his Englishness and to give M. d’Azirafelle lessons in his language free of charge.

It all began one cold morning in January when Aziraphale stepped out of his lodgings and made his way down the street with the easy manner of someone who had taken this route many times before. On his way he greeted several people he recognized, bidding them all a good morning.

He had barely walked past a dozen houses when he noticed that he was being followed.

At first he told himself that it was a mere coincidence, that the person’s destination must lie in the same direction as his, but when he turned the corner and saw the person turn as well and turn again when he turned a second time, Aziraphale knew that there could be no doubts about the man’s intentions.

_What nonsense! _he thought and, deciding to get to the heart of the man’s intentions at once, Aziraphale turned and walked directly towards his pursuer.

For a moment, he feared that the person would take fright and run away, but the man stood his ground and waited for him to approach.

As Aziraphale got closer he studied the man’s appearance. He was dressed all in black. A wide-brimmed hat sat on his head, tipped at a slight angle.

Aziraphale hesitated. For a moment he imagined that Crowley was the one who had followed him, but his senses told him that the demon was elsewhere. Aziraphale would always know if he was before him, no matter what shape Crowley assumed.

Then, his eyes swept over the man one more time and he took note of the soldier’s bearing and the sword that hung at his side. His pursuer was a complete stranger to him.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale managed to say at last. “How can I be of service?” He was very aware that he was saying the words to an armed man while they both stood in a dark and narrow alley, but being an angel gave him a different perspective on the situation.

“His Eminence is waiting for you, M. d’Azirafelle,” the man declared as if they were standing in the entrance hall of a palace.

The words hardly had time to leave the man’s lips when a carriage rattled over the stones of the street and stopped beside them.

Aziraphale smiled. Would the man threaten him? Best not to force him to do so, he decided, and stepped into the carriage, radiating complete calm.

The man followed him inside, closed the door behind him and the carriage set off on its way.

_What can His Eminence want with me, I wonder?_ Aziraphale wondered. _And who can His Eminence be? _He considered posing both questions to the stranger and thought better of it. If the man volunteered no information on his own, then there was no way Aziraphale would be able to get it out of him. Aziraphale would have to settle for using his own eyes.

He pulled aside the curtains that covered the window of the carriage and peered out. If they were taking him to the Bastille, he would know at once not to expect a pleasant tête-à-tête. At the thought of a tête-à-tête his thoughts turned to food and he realized at once that he was ravenous.

Aziraphale bit his lips in frustration and eyed the man sitting across from him, as if trying to see if he was concealing any food about his person. Worry about the man’s intentions towards him was secondary to the thought that he might have to carry on without food for a long time.

The carriage turned and Aziraphale peered out of the window again, doing his best to distract himself from thoughts about Jacques’ delicious lunches.

At last their journey came to an end and Aziraphale climbed out. A grand building rose ahead of him, but, since Aziraphale had never seen the Bastille for himself, he had no way of knowing where he was.

“His Eminence is awaiting your arrival inside,” the man who had brought him here reminded him.

Aziraphale studied the man. Perhaps the man would explain everything now. He opened his mouth, started to say something and stuttered to a halt.

The man laughed. “If you are so curious about where I brought you, you should have asked earlier.”

Aziraphale stared at him in surprise. He had assumed that the man had orders to keep their destination a secret. “Where have you brought me?”

“To the home of His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu,” was the reply.

Aziraphale said nothing to this. The name held no meaning for him. He had, at one point, kept an eye on the church’s activities, thinking that as an angel it was his duty to do so, but very soon he decided it was best to leave humanity to it, especially since Heaven cared very little for what religion humans believed in.

The residence of the Cardinal was made up of a confusing sequence of rooms. It was the relic of a previous age, but it was kept in very good order. After passing through several rooms, they entered a study where a man sat at a table by one of the windows, engrossed deeply in his studies. At the sound of their footsteps, he raised his head from his book and gave both of his visitors a piercing look.

Aziraphale made a few steps into the room and stopped. He removed his hat and studied the man before him. He was dressed in a cardinal’s robes and hat, which told Aziraphale at once that here was the man who had summoned him.

The Cardinal was in that age when few people would describe him as young or old. Strands of grey were only just beginning to show in his hair and a single line spread across his forehead. He remained in his chair and signalled to Aziraphale to come closer. “Good morning, M. d’Azirafelle.”

“Good morning, Your Eminence.” Aziraphale always struggled to remember the correct forms of address, and to know when to bow, but he bowed slightly anyway.

Cardinal Richelieu motioned at the chair before him and Aziraphale lowered himself into it. He then made a dismissive gesture at the other man who bowed and left.

“You are curious as to why I sent for you,” the Cardinal observed. It was not a question, but a statement of fact.

Did the man need confirmation? Aziraphale could not say for certain, but nodded anyway. He could not explain why, but a feeling of discomfort came over him. He had preferred to assume a small role in society that made him of little interest to others. What would a man of such obvious wealth want with him?

“I have a great interest in old works of literature and I was told that you are an expert in the field.”

The words put Aziraphale at ease at once. “I have a modest library myself, but…” Before Aziraphale knew it, he launched into a detailed description of his collection and from that jumped to a description of the books he wished to obtain.

A faint smile appeared on the cardinal’s face. “I see that you are precisely the right person I am looking for. It appears that we can be of service to one another.”

“How?”

“It is very simple,” the Cardinal answered. “I need someone to procure more books for my collection. M. de Boisville does an excellent job in looking after the books, but he is too advanced in years to be able to procure more for me and I desire to own more books than I have at present.”

How could Aziraphale turn such an offer down? He accepted most graciously, but avoided with great care all of the Cardinal’s suggestions to add his collection to that of His Eminence.

A quarter of an hour later, he stood in the middle of the Cardinal’s library, taking in his surroundings with amazement. He congratulated himself on his incredible luck.

A week later, Aziraphale discovered another advantage of his position when he sent his first detailed list of the books he proposed to add to the Cardinal’s collection. Every book he acquired in the Cardinal’s name required written permission from the Cardinal himself. This time the list included an edition of the Bible unremarkable apart from one small detail: a page where all the letters were replaced by numbers. The discovery had surprised him and he had stared at it for a long time. A typographical error in a book! The thought of Bibles with printers’ errors made his mind race and made him eager to find more.

The Cardinal’s response came almost at once. M. d’Azirafelle was to acquire all of the books, except that the Bible with the misprint would not join the Cardinal’s collection. It was to be destroyed.

The instructions shocked Aziraphale. Destroy a book? The thought alone was enough to make him uncomfortable.

He purchased all the books, added all but one to the Cardinal’s collection and wrote to inform him that his instructions had been followed. In the strictest sense this was true – he did, after all, neglect to say _which_ instructions.

The Cardinal said nothing more about the Bible with the misprint and Aziraphale went on with his work.

He studied the Cardinal’s tastes and learned to anticipate his wishes. It became easy to sort between the books the Cardinal would accept and those he would refuse, which Aziraphale would always keep for himself, regardless of what it was. Aziraphale’s own collection grew at a remarkable speed.

The angel was very happy here, in an old library with only the librarian and the books for company. Heaven appeared to have forgotten him and he felt no guilt about ignoring his angelic duties. Mostly no guilt. Alright, there was _some_ guilt, but there was very, very little of it.

He let the humans continue on around him without his influence. But the powerful men of the world are like large celestial bodies – they travel through the sky, throwing every object that approaches them out of its orbit. Aziraphale had observed this many times and took care to avoid all royalty when he wished to remain where he was. How was he to know what history had planned for Cardinal Richelieu?

Six months went by in quick succession. Paris melted in the heat of July. The air in the Cardinal’s library was stifling. Not a single window was open anywhere.

Aziraphale walked among the rows of books, his eyes passing easily from one to another. He had no patience for the heat that day and around him, no matter where he went, the air was cool. He came here every day to spend time with the collection, trying to choose which book to take back to his apartment where he could peruse it in peace.

This time he struggled to choose between three different books. He was starting to consider taking all three when the sounds of a conversation carried over to him.

“…sending Buckingham, you said? Have you heard what they say about him?” one voice asked.

The only response the question got was chuckling.

After a while a second voice observed, “They say he is very handsome.”

“He may be the handsomest man who ever lived, but still that will not change His Majesty’s decision. His Eminence agrees with me on this – England and France are on the brink of war with each other.”

A book slipped out of Aziraphale’s hand and hit the floor with a resounding thud, making him wince.

“Who is there?” the first voice called out.

A long heavy silence followed. Aziraphale did not dare to draw a single breath.

“There is no one there. I told you – His Eminence himself hardly ever visits his library,” the owner of the second voice reassured his companion.

The sound of approaching footsteps told Aziraphale that the other speaker refused to accept these reassurances.

“Is someone there?” the man called again. The voice sounded much closer now.

They were a mere row away. What would they do if they found someone was eavesdropping on their conversation?

Aziraphale was too attached to his position to let go of it so easily, but the speakers sounded like the sort of people who would not be content with a promise to be silent, or even with just a dismissal.

The two speakers rounded the corner and came to a halt. Aziraphale recognized one of them as the man who had brought him to the Cardinal. The second person was unknown to him. He had long blond hair and light-coloured eyes. In appearance he was the exact opposite of his companion, but, in that moment, they both had the same expression on their faces.

The men, for their part, saw an elderly gentleman with wispy white hair framing his bald head. The man was bent over, trying to lift a book he had just dropped.

“Who is this?” the light-haired man demanded.

“This? This is only M. de Boisville – dull-witted and half-deaf. You need not worry about him. Looking after books requires very little intelligence and skill.” A cold laughter followed those words.

Aziraphale bristled internally at this. “What?” he shouted, raising a hand to his ear. “What did you say? What book are you looking for?”

“We are not here for a book!” the man shouted, saying each word slowly.

“This is a library!” Aziraphale pointed out in the same loud and slow voice.

“So it is,” one of the men said dryly in a tone probably not meant for Aziraphale’s ears. “We will see ourselves out!” he added in a louder tone.

Aziraphale smiled and nodded. He babbled about the book in his hand as if prepared to go on for a long time about it.

The men backed away and hurried out of the library.

With a sigh Aziraphale straightened up and assumed the shame he had grown accustomed to. He took no pride in this deception even if it had succeeded. M. de Boisville was a very fascinating man to talk to – his knowledge of books was almost enough to rival Aziraphale’s own. It was just a shame that most people failed to notice this.

Aziraphale’s thoughts turned to the conversation he had inadvertently overheard. Every few years it occurred to him that humans were constantly at war with each other and the thought of yet another war starting upset him strongly. If only he could do something! The thought came out of a kind of desperation, but then his mind returned to it.

What if he _could_ do something? What if he found a way to present it? Surely Heaven would be very pleased with that! And so many lives would be saved. For a little while longer, he amended mentally. But the thought of lengthening their lives even if only for a few years filled him with purpose more so than the thought of pleasing Heaven.

His mind backed away from that realization.

Heaven would wish for him to get involved and save people’s lives, he reminded himself. It was the right thing for an angel to do.

But how could he hope to prevent a war between two countries? He was no more than a book collector, not someone in any position of power at all.

He had to see for himself what the situation was. What if those men were wrong? They could be wrong.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Perhaps they misinterpreted the events around them. Perhaps… No, no, he had to do something. They would expect him to. He could not stand idly by. But do what?

He could join the court and see for himself what were the relations between England and France and then he would decide what was the best action to take.

He took dinner in the same place as always and went to see the chef Jacques as soon as he finished eating.

“Good evening, M. d’Azirafelle,” the cook greeted him with his usual smile. “I hope you are in good health.”

“Yes, thank you,” the angel replied, brushing the question aside with all the ease of someone who was never troubled by ailments. He licked his lips as he considered his next words. “I fear I may have… That is to say: I keep books and so I know nothing about the goings on in the world…” He let the unspoken question hang in the air.

“There is no shame in that,” Jacques reassured him as if he was granting Aziraphale a formal pardon for a crime.

Aziraphale shifted uneasily from one foot to another. The expression on Jacques’ face reminded him of one he had seen more than once on the face of the angel Gabriel. It brought to mind a memory he preferred to forget, of a time when he had apologized for his mistake after…

It was best not to dwell on it, he told himself.

Still the memory unsettled him so much that when he managed to gather enough energy to speak he asked the wrong question entirely, “Where is the King’s residence?”

Jacques gave him a puzzled look. “The Louvre,” he answered. “Why are you asking me about His Majesty?”

Aziraphale sought around desperately for a reason that would make sense. “It occurred to me that I have never lain eyes on His Majesty and I have a sudden curiosity to see him.”

Jacques laughed. “You may be forced to wait for a long time before you catch as much as a glimpse of His Majesty.”

He gave a polite smile as he considered what the cook told him. He remembered Camelot with its high walls and moat. The Louvre could be a fortress well-guarded by soldiers with orders to keep the enemy out. Who would admit a book keeper into the King’s palace?

_I can pretend to be one of the soldiers, _Aziraphale decided. _All I need for that is to see what clothes the soldiers guarding the King wear._

A plan formed in his mind and he set out the following morning with the intention of carrying it out. He had to stop a few people to ask for directions to the Louvre, but once he had his answer, he strode on, congratulating himself on his clever idea. He would go inside, find out if the King was planning a war with the English and if so – he would talk him out of it. Surely the King would agree that humanity had fought in enough wars and that living in peace was a lot more sensible.

The Louvre was larger and grander than he had expected. The closer he got the bigger it appeared as more parts of the palace revealed itself to him. Would he have to search through all those rooms for the King? The thought was a troubling one.

He kept walking, determined not to be stopped by this obstacle.

When he got close enough to see the soldiers’ uniform he miracle himself an identical set and winced. A sword hung heavily at his side. The hat on his head slid forward and when he stepped forward he stumbled, caught off guard by the change in the height of his shoes.

The soldiers standing guard in the palace greeted him as one of their own and let him pass without question.

Before long, he found himself walking down a lengthy corridor with no other person in sight. He could just make out the faint sound of music. He made for the source of the sound. Soon he could hear the murmur of conversation along with a tinkle of laughter.

A servant came down the hall towards him, dressed in bright-coloured livery. “Did something happen?” he asked, giving Aziraphale a worried look.

“What? No, of course not!” Aziraphale hurried to reassure him.

“Then what are you doing here? It is your duty to guard the palace not enter it!” the servant snapped at him.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and his clothes changed to match the servant’s livery.

The man blinked. “Right. Run to the kitchens. His Majesty ordered more wine.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to explain why he could not go, to say something about being a new servant and thought better of it. Here was the perfect excuse to see His Majesty at last!

He turned around and walked away, pretending that he was doing as he was told. As soon as he turned the corner, he miracle a tray with a bottle of wine, a glass and a sealed envelope with a blank slip of paper inside.

What was the best way to explain everything?

And then he knew.

He smiled to himself and walked back the way he had come, satisfied with a job well done.

Writing appeared on the blank slip of paper in the envelope. It matched the neatness of Aziraphale’s handwriting, as if he had sat down at a table and composed the table with ink.

_Your Majesty,_

_It would be in your best interests to not go to war with the English._

He added no signature to the letter and that felt right somehow.

“There you are!” the servant exclaimed although Aziraphale had only been away for a few minutes. “Go serve it!”

A pair of large doors opened and Aziraphale stepped into a large chamber filled with many people. No one turned at his approach, making him feel as if he was invisible.

It was evident from a single glance that everyone here was from the highest society, but how was he to know which of them was the King?

And then he heard it, “The next move is yours, Your Majesty.”

He made for the direction where the voice had come from and found a man and a woman sitting at a table playing a game of cards. The man was young and handsome – in as much as Aziraphale was the judge of such things. He sat with the confident air of someone who was very aware of all his excellent qualities and knew that everyone who surrounded him was as well. He was dressed in the finest clothes and several strings of pearls hung from his jacket.

The woman sitting across from him matched him well in the amount of proud with which she carried herself. Her head was proudly raised, as if issuing a challenge to everyone around her. She was as young as the man before her, if not younger and his match in beauty. They sat with an air of intimacy that was at odds with the gathering of people in the room. Every few minutes both of them would throw fascinated glances at each other.

Aziraphale stopped near them and waited to be noticed.

The woman set a few cards down and the man reclined with a smile. “Your Majesty has won,” he said and the people around them applauded politely.

There was no trace of smugness or superiority in the Queen’s face. She regarded the man sitting opposite her for some time before answering politely, “I am certain that you can play better and that you are holding yourself back for my sake.” A smile appeared on her face. “A game is more enjoyable when it presents a challenge.”

“Then let us play again.”

Aziraphale watched them exchange pleasantries and wondered if this was flirting. He hovered nearby, waiting for the King to notice him and take the wine and the letter.

He was just considering stepping closer when a servant from before appeared at his side. “What are you doing?” the man hissed. “You are here to serve His Majesty not to enjoy yourself!”

“R-right!” Aziraphale stammered out.

The servant regarded him with disdain. “Go to it, then!” he whispered.

Aziraphale tried to point out that interrupting would be rude, but the words died on his lips at a second glance at the servant. “Right.” He turned to the table and raised his leg.

The servant grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him away. “Did you not hear me? I said _His Majesty_, not _Her Majesty_. What has gotten into you today?” He turned Aziraphale around and nodded at a group of nobles a few steps away, and among them – Aziraphale’s heart sank – was Cardinal Richelieu himself.

What was the Cardinal doing here?

Aziraphale had no time to ponder this. As he walked towards the Cardinal, he miracle himself a different face.

One of the men bowed to everyone around him and then gave a second bow to one of the people in the group. “I take my leave of Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty. The King was over there, not at the table. Aziraphale felt faintly embarrassed as he realized how he had very nearly given his letter to the wrong person.

The King did not stand out in the crowd of nobles. He wore no crown, nothing that revealed his elevated rank. He was in clothes that did not rival those of the Queen’s playing companion. There was an expression of utter boredom on his face. Worse still, he stood with his back to the Queen and took no interest in her game whatsoever.

This seemed very odd to Aziraphale and he wondered how the King could care so little for the Queen when the explanation occurred to him: they were brother and sister! Of course!

The King’s eye fell on Aziraphale’s tray and the angel remembered what he was supposed to do. He poured the wine and His Majesty accepted the glass, ignoring the letter.

The Queen’s game went on and Aziraphale noticed how everyone other than the King was taking a keen interest in the game.

Then Aziraphale heard a few people address the Queen’s playing partner as “milord” and noticed the man’s light accent when he spoke English that suggested that he was more used to speaking English.

He stepped back to the table and listened to the Englishman speak. If England and France were on the verge of war then the conversation at the table was bound to give that away.

But the game went on. The players exchanged pleasantries and compliments under the eyes of everyone else.

“It appears,” someone said in a very low voice on the other side of the room, “that Lord Buckingham will get what he wants and very soon we will have the honour of celebrating an excellent match.”

_There will be a wedding?_ Aziraphale wondered. _Between who?_

His eyes returned to the table. He caught the way the man continued to study the Queen, as if afraid of missing any of the details. She won another game.

“Lord Buckingham has little skill with cards,” someone murmured halfway across the room.

His skill lies elsewhere,” someone else replied with a chuckle.

Aziraphale stepped closer to the table.

The Queen rose, thanked Lord Buckingham for the game and left the room. A crowd of women followed after her.

“What is this?” Buckingham asked, rising to his feet next to Aziraphale and studying the contents of his tray. “A letter?”

“Yes, Milord, for someone else.” Aziraphale stepped back and prepared to leave.

“Who is it for?” Buckingham asked. “If the person is in this room, you must deliver it.”

“It is for His Majesty.” He walked back to the King. He was impatient to hand the letter over and leave. He wanted to return to his rooms and his books.

He approached the King and waited patiently for him to notice him. Buckingham followed him, staying behind at some distance, drawn by the desire to learn the contents of the letter.

As soon as the King noticed him, Aziraphale held out the tray.

The King raised his eyebrows. He threw a quick glance at the envelope, at Aziraphale and then at Lord Buckingham. His fingers closed around the envelope and he picked it up. He broke the seal and perused the letter. His face darkened and his jaw set. Finally he crumpled the letter in his hand. “Who gave you this?” he demanded.

Aziraphale retreated under the force of His Majesty’s anger. There was something wrong with the letter, but he could not fathom what it was.

Everyone was turning to look now. Some people were stepping closer.

The angel swallowed and wished he had never come here. He sought desperately for a way to tell the truth. “He did not tell me his name,” he said at last.

The Cardinal was studying his face now.

They dragged him off as if he had committed some great crime. The King and a crowd of people Aziraphale did not know questioned him for a long time about the note. Aziraphale gathered from their questions that the King was convinced that Buckingham had written the letter, but why he thought this, the angel could not understand.

He kept repeating two things: the author of the letter did not give his name and Aziraphale barely saw the person.

Finally the King gave a tired sigh. “Take him to the Bastille. Perhaps a night there will help him remember something.”

Aziraphale was starting to panic. How long would this go on for? Oh if only he had left well enough alone!

An escort of soldiers took him to the Bastille and he walked with his head lowered. If he kept saying the same thing, they were bound to see that keeping him any longer was just a waste of time and then they would let him out.

They had to let him out, right? They would not keep him here forever!

They brought Aziraphale before a man who threw two dozen questions at him and wrote down every word Aziraphale said. This time the angel did not keep to the truth and made up all his answers.

Once all of the questions were asked, Aziraphale was led away to a cell and locked inside.

Aziraphale took in the damp walls, the slab that was meant to serve as a bed and the horrible smells. He wrinkled his nose and said to no one in particular, “They do not go for comfort here, do they?”

He sat down on the bed and sighed.

A week later it became obvious that they were determined that he would remember something and that people who could not remember anything were not released from the Bastille.

The dampness of his cell, the absence of his books and the hardness of his bed were really getting to him.

The next day when they took him away for more questioning, he felt his patience run out.

“What is your name?” the man demanded for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Look,” Aziraphale said, “you already asked me that question seventeen times. I counted, you know. My answer will remain the same no matter how many times you ask. Can you accept that I know nothing all this and let me go? Please?”

The man gave him a horrible grin. “You would like that, would you not?” he asked, leaning forward. “English spy! Who is your master? Tell me!”

Aziraphale gave a tired sigh. “I am not an English spy.”

“You speak like an Englishman. You act like a person who has something to hide. Admit it!”

“You certainly know a lot about spies,” Aziraphale observed. Then an idea occurred to him. “Perhaps you are an English spy yourself,” he said and, not troubling to wait for what the interrogator would say to that, he snapped his fingers.

Now Aziraphale was the one who sat at the table and led the interrogation.

The man who was once the interrogator blinked at him in confusion. He was dressed as a prisoner now. Chains hung from his wrists.

Aziraphale produced a blank sheet of paper and dipped the pen in ink. “What is your name?”

“Jean-Michel,” the man answered, trembling.

Aziraphale wrote down the answer, taking care with each letter. The sight of words on a paper made him think of books, bringing to mind the collection waiting for him. He had to ask another question he remembered. Not that it mattered what the question was. “And have you ever read a book?”

“No. I never read any books apart from the Bible!” the ex-interrogator exclaimed. “I swear it!”

“You swear it?” Aziraphale asked.

“I swear it,” the man repeated, placing a hand over his heart.

Aziraphale wrote down, _“Jean-Michel only ever read the Bible.”_ Then he raised his head and gave the order, “Take him back to the cell.”

“I never read any!” the man protested. “I swear! I swear it!” His words echoed around the halls as the guards led him away.

Aziraphale sighed, got up and walked out of the Bastille as if he was merely going for a stroll. No one tried to stop him. He greeted every guard he passed, keeping a carefree expression on his face. As soon as he stepped out into the street he let out a sigh of relief.

It was a cold night, but Aziraphale enjoyed the feel of the breeze on his skin as he walked back to his lodgings.

What was he to do next? If he was to stop the war between France and England, he needed a position at court so that he could influence events without getting locked up for it.

Two months later a new nobleman was presented at court. His name was Count de Felle. He left no impression on the King’s memory and the Queen hardly even noticed him.

It took the hard work of half a year – planting suggestions here, dropping hints there – before the Queen met Lord Buckingham again.

They walked arm in arm through the palace gardens Aziraphale congratulated himself on a job well done.

There was no trace of the usual pride on the Queen’s face. There was only sadness now. Buckingham listened to her with admiration in his eyes. He held one hand to his heart and spoke like someone delivering vows.

Aziraphale hid behind the hedges and listened to the Queen lament about the King’s coldness towards her.

Soon the angel found his attention wandering away from the words of the Queen and back to a more pressing matter. Were they falling in love? Would they arrange for a marriage and, therefore, peace between England and France?

Months went by and still nothing changed. No wedding was announced, but neither was a war declared.

Something happened in Italy, but Aziraphale dismissed the events as unimportant. Despite appearing at court every day, Aziraphale paid little attention to what happened around him. However, it did not escape his attention that Cardinal Richelieu was spending more time with the King now and that everyone else at court was treating him with as much reverence as they reserved for the King and Queen.

The King had his musketeers – soldiers picked out from the aristocracy and the Cardinal had his own guards, who were also selected from the finest. Slowly, they were dividing the court in two.

Aziraphale watched this without understanding all the implications of this division. He had no desire to fight anyone and had avoided all skirmishes. He was an angel, a being who spread and love and peace, not hate and war, he kept reminding himself.

That was why he was doing his best to secure a marriage that would form a strong bond between England and France. It was just a shame that he found out too late that the Queen was already married.

The revelation dropped like a bag of bricks on his head one grey morning.

“…and, as the Queen’s husband, the Queen…” someone whispered to him as they walked down a hall of the Louvre.

Aziraphale froze as if someone had turned him to stone. He turned his head slowly and met the speaker’s eye. “The King is married to the Queen?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes, of course! That is why she is the _Queen_. Her brother is the King of Spain and when –”

But Aziraphale had no patience for the rest of the explanation. What did the Queen’s family matter when he had made such a mess of things? A terrible mess of things!

_Oh no! _he thought, fidgeting nervously. _What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a whole Wikipedia article about typos in Bibles and most of them were from editions published later than 1622, which I’m tempted to say is due to some influence. The one mentioned in this chapter is fictitious (just like the Buggere Alle This Bible mentioned in the book).


End file.
